


passaddhi

by doomcake



Series: Across the Universe [8]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Pseudo-quantum physics, Sexual Content, Violence, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Bovino may be one of the longest-standing Vongola allies, and possibly one of the best authorities on messing with the space-time continuum, but that doesn’t mean Gokudera can just waltz in there and demand favors.</i>
</p><p>Gokudera isn't healing as well as he should be. Also, the calm before the storm.</p><p>[Part of an ongoing, post-TYL divergent AU arc]</p>
            </blockquote>





	passaddhi

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
> 
> \--
> 
> A million thanks to M for pre-reading & offering suggestions!
> 
> \--
> 
> Part 7/? of "Across the Universe" series
> 
> **PLEASE NOTE:** This story is part of a prequel arc to "dive" (see the "first" part in this series--AO3 doesn't let us have a "part 0"). Not sure how this might be as a stand-alone fic, so I would recommend reading the previous sections leading up to this story.
> 
> This was also originally posted as 2 parts, but I have combined them here.
> 
> Also, this is the last complete part that I have written/posted elsewhere. Any parts after this will be posted as I write them (WHICH I WILL WARN may take me a bazillion years /sob).
> 
> **WARNINGS:** strong language (my Gokudera tends to be pretty foul-mouthed), non-graphic M/M sexual content, pseudo-science in which I take a page (or several) out of Amano's book, injuries.

_“Hey, you should probably call Yamamoto, he might be worried…”  
  
_ Voices drift over Gokudera’s head, but they sound like they’re coming from a distance. A part of him realizes that he’s half-awake, but overwhelming exhaustion persistently pulls him away from consciousness.  
  
 _“HAHA look, he’s drooling—that’s extremely_ _hilarious!!”  
  
“Shh! Don’t wake him up, Nii-san—”_  
  
Something soft drifts across his shoulders, and Gokudera lets the voices fade away.  
  
The next thing he knows, there is a large, warm hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. Gokudera blinks away the weights on his eyelids, his sleeve blearily coming into focus. Shifting, he slowly takes in his surroundings, because in his sleep-addled confusion, he doesn’t have a goddamned clue where he is or what’s going on.  
  
“Hey,” a familiar voice says softly over his head. _Yamamoto_. “Had a nice nap?”  
  
Gokudera groans as his neck complains stiffly when he tries to shift to look up. “How long was I asleep?” he asks, voice scratchy.  
  
“About an hour,” Yamamoto replies. “Here, let’s get you up and moving.”  
  
As Gokudera’s mind slowly breaks away from dreamland and goes back online in reality, he recalls that he’s in the Tenth’s office. That sudden realization sends a jolt of adrenaline through his veins in panic—he’s been intruding on the Tenth’s important business for _an entire hour_?  
  
“Shit,” he says, scrambling to get to his feet. His side twinges in warning and he hisses, but manages to get himself to his feet regardless. A blanket drops from his shoulders as he stands—he doesn’t remember the blanket being there before, but before he can get to his unsteady feet, Yamamoto’s hand finds its way to his elbow. “Where’s the Tenth? God, I’m so embarrassed, I didn’t mean to fall asleep in his office—”  
  
“It’s okay, Gokudera-kun,” the Tenth’s voice says from across the room. Gokudera flinches and feels his ears burn in humiliation. “You looked exhausted.”  
  
“I’m so sorry, Tenth!” he says, bowing. “I have shamed you and failed as your Right Hand Man!”  
  
The Tenth shifts uncomfortably and makes a strange face, but the look dispels as he manages a smile. “Gokudera-kun, I’m not going to be mad if my _friend_ takes a nap in my office when he needs it. You needed the rest.”  
  
“Come on, let’s get you back to the apartment,” Yamamoto says, leading him to the door by the elbow.  
  
Gokudera wants to pull away and argue with Yamamoto—but the Tenth is standing there, and if Gokudera were to be completely honest, he really _is_ exhausted. The wound in his gut is healing, but progress is slower than it should be. Every time he goes in for a check-up with the physician, he gets a frown and an irritable flip of his medical charts, but no explanation outside of a confirmation that it isn’t _worse_.  
  
It isn’t comforting.  
  
Offering an apologetic farewell to the Tenth, Gokudera follows Yamamoto’s lead back to their apartment. His feet feel heavy, like he’s ten years older than he actually is. Abdominal wounds tend to drain energy, the doctor had explained, and he’d nodded in understanding. So he’d be a little out of it, he could handle that much. In reality, though, the lack of energy is incredibly frustrating—especially when he falls asleep in his boss’ office, or when he can’t mentally track discussions during regular meetings.  
  
And it doesn’t help his mood when everyone’s back to treating him like he’s made of glass. Which, goddamn it, he _isn’t_. He won’t shatter if he doesn’t get nine hours of sleep a night. He won’t break if he sneezes, or trips over his own feet, or takes a longer walk than he probably should take.  
  
Gokudera doesn’t realize how heavily he’s leaning on Yamamoto’s arm until Yamamoto lets go to rummage through his pocket and fish out the keys to their apartment. Wincing, he straightens and resolves to walk into the apartment by his own power, and is proud that he manages to get as far as the couch before easing himself down. He’s frustrated by his own lack of energy, but there isn’t much he can do about it other than rest.  
  
“What would you like for dinner?” Yamamoto asks, moving to their kitchenette and flipping on the lights. “We’ve got leftover spaghetti, frozen fish fillets, lots of different kinds of soups, I could order a pizza or take out…”  
  
Gokudera’s stomach churns at the idea of food, but he knows Yamamoto will likely be insistent.  
  
“Soup sounds fine,” he replies. “Surprise me.”  
  
Pleased, Yamamoto beams. “Coming right up!”  
  
Gokudera settles down into the plump couch cushions, telling himself that Yamamoto is way too good to him, but he doesn’t quite finish the thought before he drifts back to a dreamless, exhausted sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
The air in the gym reeks of stale sweat, but it’s a welcome change from the apartment. Gokudera sits on a bench at the side of the room, leaning against the wall as he watches as Yamamoto does _kata_ and Ryohei battles a small punching bag. At first, he isn’t sure why he insisted on coming, because watching others in action only makes himwant to join in, but since he’d torn his stitches open _again_ only two days before doing a simple task like tidying up around the apartment, he doesn’t dare try.  
  
Watching Yamamoto practice is relaxing, though, and Gokudera can’t help but feel at least a little proud that the Rain Guardian’s good looks are _his_ to enjoy. (Not that he’d openly admit as much, since the idiot would only get a big head about it.)  
  
Gokudera’s phone vibrates in his pocket, startling him out of his reverie. Tearing his eyes from Yamamoto, he wrestles the cell out of his pocket and notices that it’s the Tenth calling him from his office. Immediately sitting up straighter, Gokudera answers the call and enthusiastically greets his boss, loudly enough to be heard over the clinking of weights in the background.  
  
“Tenth! What can I do—”  
  
 _“Gokudera, you dumb shit, where the fuck are you?”_  
  
It takes Gokudera all of two seconds of confusion before he answers not-Tenth warily, “… Who is this? Why are you on the Tenth’s office line?”  
  
 _“I left my phone in my hotel room—hey, that isn’t the_ gym _I hear in the background, is it?”_  
  
Suddenly, there’s a face that accompanies the voice in Gokudera’s head, and he makes a face.  
  
“Shamal.” The name rolls off his tongue flatly, like it tastes stale and bitter in his mouth. “What the fuck do _you_ want, you perverted old geezer.”  
  
 _“Such fantastic manners for a fully-grown Mafiosi. Your father would be so proud—”_  
  
Gokudera’s teeth grind together. “You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
 _“So I hear you’ve been having some trouble with a wound. Your boss thought I might be of help, but it sounds like you’re in perfect health, so it looks like my expert assistance is unneeded.”_  
  
Gokudera hears a higher-pitched voice of protest in the background— _the Tenth’s listening_ , he realizes, his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. It’s hard to argue with the old man when the Tenth is listening on, and Gokudera can’t quite find words. There’s an annoyed sigh on the other end of the phone line.  
  
 _“Meet me back at your room in twenty minutes. Don’t be late, brat.”_  
  
Gokudera opens his mouth to voice a retort, but the other end of the line dies before he gets a chance to say anything. Feeling humiliated and angry, he stalks out of the gym—out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yamamoto staring back at him worriedly—and back towards his apartment, intent on giving Shamal a piece of his mind (as long as the Tenth isn’t there, too).  
  
And just to show his discontent with the older man, Gokudera makes sure the walk back takes him _twenty-five_ minutes. Shamal’s waiting by his apartment door, a briefcase in one hand. He glares at Gokudera as he walks up to his locked apartment door, glancing down at his watch pointedly and back up at Gokudera, but he doesn’t say a word as Gokudera pushes past him to open the apartment door.  
  
As soon as the door is securely shut behind him, Gokudera turns, only for his vision to white out a split second before the slap resounds in his ringing ears. Blinking away stars from his vision, he lifts a hand to his cheek in surprise as he looks at Shamal’s face—it’s twisted in _fury_. But the concern Gokudera feels (he’s never seen Shamal _that_ angry before) is overridden by the sudden urge to punch him in retaliation.  
  
“What the fuck was that for?” he seethes, running a tongue experimentally over his teeth. His cheek burns from the contact, feeling like something’s still pressing against it.  
  
“You’re a goddamned fucking _idiot_ ,” Shamal snarls. “You’re supposed to be Sawada’s Right Hand Man—his _sotto capo_ —and instead of helping your Boss, you’ve got him worried _shitless_ about you!”  
  
“He’s the worrying type, I can’t help that!” Gokudera snaps back defensively. “I’m _fine_! The doctor even says so, it’s just a matter of time before I’m back to being one hundred percent—I don’t know what the fuck everyone expects me to do! I’m resting like I’m supposed to, taking my medications, following orders _to the fucking T_ —”  
  
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Shamal sounds exasperated. “It’s not a matter of your path to wellness; it’s the fact that you’re on that path to begin with! And this isn’t the first time you’ve been there recently, Hayato—I can clearly remember patching you up after you nearly got yourself killed by the Solntsevskaya brotherhood, and that was what, not quite a year ago?”  
  
“Just over a year,” Gokudera says sullenly.  
  
Shamal frowns, crossing his arms as he looks at Gokudera from head to toe. “You’re not suicidal, are you? Because if you are—”  
  
Gokudera holds up a hand to silence him. “Look, Shamal. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t fucking need to hear this from _you_ , of all people. I’ve already had this discussion. You know, with people who actually _care_. Everyone’s just worried because this happened so soon after the Russian thing—and if I could control how the mafia works, I wouldn’t voluntarily inflict bodily harm on myself! But like I said, I’m fine now—”  
  
Shamal isn’t looking too impressed at this point. “Oh, really?” he says. “Then you won’t mind if I just do _this_ —” He harshly presses his balled hand against Gokudera’s bad side before Gokudera can even think to move, and suddenly the edges around Gokudera’s vision turn grey and he can’t even _breathe_ , it hurts so badly.  
  
He opens his eyes and frowns up at the ceiling, not remembering when he fell. There’s a string of curses in Italian coming from off to the side, and when he looks over, he realizes he’s on his own couch—he doesn’t remember moving there either. Shamal is speaking in a mix of Japanese and foul Italian over the phone, and it takes a moment for the words to process in Gokudera’s addled brain.  
  
“—didn’t tell me it was _that_ fucking bad!”  
  
“Shamal,” Gokudera says, a little surprised at how raw his voice sounds.  
  
“Ah shit, he’s awake now—I’ll call you back.” Shamal hits a button on his mobile and slides it into his pocket, a worried frown on his face as he approaches Gokudera.  
  
“What happened?” Gokudera asks, trying to sit up, but Shamal presses a hand against his shoulder to keep him still.  
  
“Don’t move around yet,” he says sternly. “You passed out on me, kid. Jesus, why didn’t you _tell_ me? You said you were _fine_ , and last time I checked, ‘fine’ means you’re mostly recovered!”  
  
“It didn’t hurt until you put a fist in it, asshole,” Gokudera snaps defensively.  
  
Shamal snorts irritably. “That was hardly a love-tap, you pansy.” But his expression softens (just a little), and he says, “It isn’t healing properly, is it?”  
  
Gokudera doesn’t answer, but he can’t seem to meet Shamal’s eyes—and apparently, that’s enough of an answer for Shamal.  
  
“What did you _do_?” Shamal growls.  
  
Again, Gokudera keeps silent, even though he knows it’s only making Shamal’s anger grow.  
  
“How did you get this wound? Hayato—”  
  
“It’s a stab wound,” Gokudera replies, sullenly.  
  
“Ordinary stab wounds don’t take _weeks_ to heal, dipshit.”  
  
“It isn’t mine, okay?”  
  
Shamal pauses, blinking down at him. His mouth opens for a second, but no words come out for a moment. “Come again?”  
  
Gokudera swats Shamal’s hand away, gritting his teeth against the twinge in his wounded side as he sits up. This isn’t a conversation he’d wanted to have with _Shamal_ , of all people, but it looks like he won’t be able to avoid the issue so easily.  
  
“You remember that project I was working on before? The one with the nanobots,” Gokudera starts. “This was originally someone else’s wound. But now it’s mine.”  
  
Shamal looks puzzled for all of two seconds, and Gokudera can _see_ the older man’s thought process playing out across his face. Confusion, and then the realization sets in one stage at a time: he’s impressed, and then he figures out _exactly_ what it is that Gokudera’s done to himself.  
  
“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he says. “I thought those hadn’t managed to make it to a testing phase. Hayato, please tell me you _didn’t_ — … Oh. Oh, _god_.” He presses a hand to his mouth, and for a second, Gokudera braces himself to be slapped again, or maybe punched.  
  
Nothing happens for a moment, and the silence permeates the room like a thick, choking haze. Gokudera wants nothing more than to retreat, to get out from under Shamal’s scrutinizing gaze, to escape the rest of this conversation.  
  
“Why?” Shamal finally asks.  
  
The question catches Gokudera off guard, and it takes him a moment to compose himself enough to answer. “I had something I needed to protect,” he says simply.  
  
Shamal’s eyes flick to a framed picture sitting on the end table by the couch, and Gokudera knows that Shamal has essentially figured it out.  
  
“Jesus. Do you know how much of an idiot you are?” Shamal says.  
  
“I am aware,” Gokudera replies, gritting his teeth. He moves to stand. “Look, I appreciate your concern, Shamal, but what’s done is done—”  
  
Shamal’s hand lands on his knee, keeping him in place. “Sit down,” he says sternly. “I’m not done with you, yet.”  
  
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Gokudera snaps. “I already had it with Yamamoto—”  
  
“So he _does_ know?”  
  
“Yes, he knows, and don’t worry—he suitably got pissed at me for it, too. I don’t expect either of you to understand, but I’ve already made up my mind.”  
  
Gokudera moves to stand up again, but this time, Shamal beats him to his feet and holds him down by the shoulders.  
  
“I told you, I’m not done with you, yet.”  
  
Gokudera grew up with Shamal, but he’s never seen such a fierce expression on the man’s face before—at least, never directed at him, and it’s a little scary, if he were to be honest with himself. So Gokudera complies, trying not to let his thoughts show on his face.  
  
“Unbutton your shirt and lie down.”  
  
Gokudera blinks up at him stupidly for a moment. “You can’t be serious—”  
  
“Hayato, your boss had me come here for one purpose, and it’s to make sure you don’t off yourself like the idiotic, suicidal bonehead you are. _Lie the fuck down_.”  
  
Scowling, Gokudera does what he’s told, but he can’t even look at Shamal once he complies. Shamal’s fingers are cold when they brush against the skin next to the bandage covering Gokudera’s wound, and he flinches at the contact. His skin stings as Shamal peels the tape and the bandage away from the injury, and he closes his eyes when Shamal hisses at the sight.  
  
“How old is this again?”  
  
Gokudera knows the answer will only set the man off again, but he replies anyway. “Four weeks, give or take a few days.”  
  
“How often have you had to get it re-sutured?”  
  
“A few times.”  
  
“Well, we’re going to have to do it again—it’s bleeding, and one of your stitches is loose,” Shamal says. He dabs something against the wound. “Are you sure you’re following the doctor’s orders? You shouldn’t be having this much trouble with it.”  
  
“Yes! Damn it, I’m not _that_ stupid,” Gokudera growls, eyes snapping open long enough to send a glare in Shamal’s direction. “I already told you, I don’t know why it’s taking so long to heal. And might I remind you, it’s _your_ fault it’s bleeding again, not mine.”  
  
Shamal’s jaw works furiously as he clenches his teeth, but he doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he moves away for a moment to open his briefcase, and pulls out a few instruments and a pair of disposable gloves.  
  
“Stay here, I’m going to go wash up,” he says after a moment.  
  
Gokudera snorts softly, closing his eyes. Fingers prodding into his side again snap him out of a brief rest—he’d fallen asleep again—and he blinks back up at Shamal.  
  
“Still exhausted, huh,” Shamal notes. “It’s to be expected. Hold still, I’m going to numb the area around the wound so it won’t hurt so much while I’m cutting into it.”  
  
At that, Gokudera wakes fully, but before he can move, Shamal’s hand is on his shoulder.  
  
“You’ll get blood all over my couch,” Gokudera protests. “Are you sure this is sanitary?”  
  
“I put down a coverlet while you were asleep. Now if you hold still and _relax_ , I won’t have to sedate you. I’d rather not do that since I’d rather have you lucid for this. It won’t take long—”  
  
There’s a sharp prick in Gokudera’s side, and he fights the urge to tense his muscles, but a pleasant numbness spreads across his belly after a few moments. He feels slight pressure from Shamal’s probing fingers, but nothing more. Satisfied, Shamal pulls out a scalpel and carefully starts to remove the stitches. Gokudera closes his eyes again; he’s seen enough of the wound himself, and doesn’t really fancy watching this whole process again.  
  
“I have a hunch,” Shamal says, after a few moments.  
  
“Hm?” Gokudera cracks open an eye and looks up in Shamal’s direction as he keeps working.  
  
“If you hadn’t told me about the nanobots, I’d just assume you’re a slow healer by looking at this wound. But I know you better than that, and it looks to me like the tissues around the injury are unstable,” Shamal explains.  
  
“Unstable? What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“I’ll have to take a cell sample and get a closer look, but I think the nanobots are the reason this isn’t healing like it should be. They’re inhibiting healing in the tissues around the injury.”  
  
Gokudera frowns—this wasn’t an expected side effect, but then again, he wasn’t a medical expert and hadn’t actually thought about the more serious side effects much.  
  
“So it’s not healing at all?” he asks.  
  
“No, there’s definitely a sign of healing here. It’s just… slow.” Shamal pauses, looking thoughtful for a moment. “You know, you could probably reprogram the nanobots so that they don’t get in the way of healing—in fact, you could probably even get them to speed up the process, if you figure out how to program them correctly.”  
  
 _Huh_. Now that idea was something that hadn’t occurred to Gokudera—but then again, he’d been approaching this entire project from the angle that he would use it as a weapon. The idea to test it out on himself had come mostly as a whim, just to see if the damned things even worked. But if he really _could_ reprogram the nanobots, well. _That_ would actually solve a lot of his concerns, if he could figure out how to do it before another fight breaks out.  
  
The sound of tape ripping brought Gokudera out of his thoughts, and he watched as Shamal carefully taped a gauze bandage back in place over the cleaned and sutured wound in his side.  
  
“All done,” he announces, stripping the gloves from his hands and carefully tugging the sheet out from under Gokudera’s side for disposal. “Now don’t do anything too strenuous, otherwise you’ll tear those open again—”  
  
“And avoid asshole quack doctors who like to punch people when they’re down, got it,” Gokudera adds.  
  
Shamal glares at him. “You’re lucky I’m still willing to treat you as a patient, boy, because last time I checked, you still have a dick and are lacking breasts and a vagina.”  
  
“Pervert.”  
  
“Oh, that reminds me,” Shamal says. His grin turns malicious as his eyes glance past the picture on the end table of Yamamoto and Gokudera together. “No sex, either.”  
  
Gokudera frowns. “Uh, not that I want you involved in my sex life _ever_ , but my _usual_ doctor said that as long as it doesn’t strain my injury further, it’s fine.”  
  
“ _No sex_ ,” Shamal reiterates icily.  
  
Gokudera knows that part of Shamal still isn’t quite okay with the fact that the only person he’s ever mentored ended up batting for the other team. For a womanizing Italian Catholic like Shamal, Gokudera supposes it’s not an unreasonable distaste, but it still bothers him that Shamal isn’t really okay with Yamamoto. The rebellious part of Gokudera is gleeful that he still can raise Shamal’s hackles subversively, though, so he stiffens his back in resolve.  
  
“I still fail to see how my sex life is any of your business,” he replies.  
  
Shamal’s eyes meet his—it really brings Gokudera back to a brief period of his youth, when Shamal actually _did_ have some say—but the time is now, and Gokudera isn’t that child anymore. Nor does Shamal have any right to dictate his personal life.  
  
Perhaps this is what Shamal sees, because moments later, he exhales dramatically, drawing the tension out of the room with his breath. “Suit yourself, _pervert_ ,” he says pointedly. “Just don’t come crying to me when you tear your stitches again because you couldn’t handle a rough night like a man.”  
  
Gokudera snorts. “Last I checked, I didn’t come to you in the first place,” he points out. But when he sees Shamal opening his mouth to retort, he adds, “Oh stuff it, old man. I don’t want to start a fight.”  
  
The doctor looks like he wants to argue, but stops himself, looking over Gokudera accusingly (though Gokudera thinks he might’ve seen a hint of worry in the expression somewhere, if he really wanted to think about it—which he _doesn’t_ ). The subject drops, and Shamal begins cleaning up his supplies without another word.  
  
Shamal leaves him with a fresh set of instructions (nothing Gokudera hasn’t heard already), a refill on his pain medication, a stern reminder to look into reprogramming the nanobots, and an even more stern caution to take care of himself properly this time. _Take easy walks to avoid scar tissue build-up. Stop smoking._ The usual instructions, really—Gokudera nods and waves him off, gingerly settling himself back down on the couch.  
  
The last thing he thinks about before falling asleep is the coding line he used on the nanobots currently inside him, and how he could manage to tweak it under new parameters. Before he can get very far into the thought process, though, his exhausted body overrides his whirling mind.  
  
  
  
  
  
Stacks of programming books are scattered throughout a mess of crumpled note papers and empty, dirty coffee cups that currently are strewn across Gokudera and Yamamoto’s living room coffee table. Gokudera sits on the floor, hunched over blueprints and a small plastic model that looks a lot like the machine sitting dormant in his lab.  
  
The coding for the nanobots isn’t going well. The first round of recoding and reprogramming the nanobots in an attempt to speed up healing results in nothing less than instant cancer in every scenario that Gokudera has run thus far, and that definitely isn’t on his list of viable solutions. Of course, it’s just in theory so far, but Gokudera trusts his instincts enough to know that it’s a risk he really isn’t willing to take, not even in a testing phase.  
  
In essence, Gokudera is stuck. Again. And he’s so sick of going back to the drawing board (from scratch) that he could scream.  
  
So Gokudera, as he typically is prone to do, switches gears back to the universe-travelling machine for his sanity’s sake. The time and distance from the project he’s had so far—he hopes it will give him some clarity he didn’t have the last time around. It’s been a while since he’s pulled out the blueprints, trying to come up with a better means of disguise and protection for his machine. He’s still too afraid to actually turn it on, though, since the little warning light makes him worry.  
  
He doesn’t like to worry, contrary to popular belief. It gives him indigestion.  
  
Then there’s the issue of two incarnations of a single person in the same universe. This is something he’s had to think about at length, but hasn’t really wanted to consider. Gokudera remembers Ghost all too well—how could he ever forget?—and wonders if something like that would happen to him if he tried going against the natural flow of parallel universes.  
  
Although, having abilities like Ghost might not be all bad, he thinks. Aside from the issue of lacking a personality to speak of, or any sort of viable human emotion, or even all of the physical bits—well, maybe those abilities weren’t worth it after all.  
  
Gokudera knows that his knowledge on the subject is incomplete, and he knows _who_ he really should be speaking to if he’s concerned about the logistics of a physical body changing space/time location… but it would involve potential favors to a stupid cow who happened to hail from the family he needs to speak with. The Bovino may be one of the longest-standing Vongola allies, and possibly one of the best authorities on messing with the space-time continuum, but that doesn’t mean Gokudera can just waltz into their primary estate and demand favors.  
  
In the long run, though, Gokudera knows he doesn’t have a choice—he’s only putting off the inevitable. And now, while he’s stuck on how to provide better security for his machine, is likely the best time to take care of this particular loose end.  
  
With an exasperated sigh, Gokudera pulls out his mobile and scans through the numbers on the display.  
  
 _Here goes nothing…_  
  
“Lambo, it’s Gokudera,” he begins. “Hey, listen. Is there any chance you might be able to arrange a meeting for me with your uncle? I have something I need to discuss with him…”  
  
  
  
  
  
Gokudera wants nothing more than to barricade himself in his lab, to focus on finding a solution to any one of the number of problems he’s currently trying to work around. But in his condition, spending an extended amount of time there will only further impede his healing process, slow as it is. That, and he’d have one very irritated baseball idiot on his case all over again. He can’t emotionally afford to fight with Yamamoto. So he brings what he can manage up to the apartment, putting himself within Yamamoto’s reach, without putting up much of a complaint.  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t say anything, but Gokudera can read him like an open book most days. And he can tell that Yamamoto _does_ acknowledge the attempt, and is grateful for it. It’s the first time Gokudera has managed to avoid picking a fight over time spent on his projects, and a small part of his ego swells with pride for it.  
  
There isn’t any prying involved, though Yamamoto seems to find excuses to be close for a few days. At first, Gokudera finds it sweet (though he’d never admit to it), but by the third day, he starts getting suspicious when Yamamoto isn’t asking him questions about his work. Not even with wordless, inquisitive glances. And Gokudera knows Yamamoto too well to ignore the signs.  
  
Yamamoto’s going on a mission. Soon.  
  
“So, when are you leaving?” Gokudera finally asks. They’re sharing take-out, since Yamamoto came back late from the gym, and Gokudera accidentally slept through the usual dinner-preparing time.  
  
Yamamoto starts, pausing with noodles halfway to his lips—Gokudera can see him deciding between stuffing the noodles in his mouth to delay his answer, and manning up. Settling on the latter, Yamamoto settles down his chopsticks and offers a sheepish chuckle.  
  
“How could you tell?” he asks.  
  
“You’re spending a lot of time here, and you aren’t asking enough questions,” Gokudera says, indicating a pile of equations on the table with his chopsticks. “It’s rare that you aren’t asking me idiotic questions about what I’m doing.”  
  
Yamamoto blinks, but doesn’t pause as he blurts out, “Well, what _are_ you working on?”  
  
Snorting, Gokudera pushes Yamamoto’s shoulder. “Idiot,” he scoffs. “You still didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Yamamoto’s semi-permanent grin falters, giving way to something a little more somber than jovial, but it doesn’t fade. “I’m leaving in two days,” he says quietly. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”  
  
The news hurts a little more than Gokudera is expecting, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. “Are you leaving the country?” He knows better than to ask more specifics, despite the burning curiosity (and concern) churning in his gut.  
  
“No,” Yamamoto replies. “It’s not far. It’s just… not entirely _safe_.”  
  
“Hn.” Gokudera viciously stuffs his mouth full of noodles, gathering his thoughts. If it’s local, and if the Tenth isn’t telling him about it, Gokudera has a hunch that it’ll have something to do with the Gesso famiglia or their Korean allies. News on that front has been startlingly absent, which is probably why the Tenth is having Yamamoto check out the situation.  
  
“You aren’t… mad about it, are you?” Yamamoto hesitates around his words, as if the wrong words will set off a chain reaction of explosives that he can’t stop.  
  
Which is an unfair judgment, Gokudera thinks as his side twinges in reminder. “Of course I’m not angry,” he snaps defensively. (He isn’t helping his own case at all here, really.) “What makes you think that?”  
  
“You seem to be taking this rather well,” Yamamoto says, caution still present in his tone. “I know you don’t like feeling left out of the loop when you’re the Tenth’s Right Hand Man.”  
  
“Damn straight I don’t,” Gokudera replies, “but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of judging my own physical capacity right now. I’m well aware that being on enforced rest means that missions are a no-go for the time being.”  
  
Yamamoto blinks again, looking like a deer caught in the headlights—as if he isn’t sure what to do now that Gokudera isn’t reacting the way he expects. Gokudera resists the urge to smirk at his ability to keep Yamamoto on his toes; it’s a rare feat.  
  
“Besides,” Gokudera adds, “I might not be here anyway.”  
  
At that, Yamamoto freezes and stares at Gokudera pointedly. Gokudera resists the urge to bite his tongue; he hadn’t actually meant to let Yamamoto know of his plans to go visit the Bovino _famiglia_ to try and gain some clarity for his universe-travelling machine.  
  
“Oh? Where are you going?” Yamamoto asks, but the light-hearted tone sounds horribly flat to Gokudera’s ears.  
  
Gokudera manages not to cringe. Yamamoto isn’t going to like his answer—but he reasons that Yamamoto would find out anyway. Better Gokudera be the source than someone else.  
  
“It’s a business trip,” he replies nonchalantly, but the way Yamamoto grips his chopsticks a little _too_ firmly has Gokudera backpedalling. “Not like that! It’s nothing strenuous, I promise.”  
  
“Shamal said you weren’t supposed to travel if you could avoid it,” Yamamoto says accusingly. “And I thought you said missions were a no-go.”  
  
Gokudera scowls. “This isn’t a mission. And when did you talk to Shamal?”  
  
“When he cornered me after my workout, a couple of days ago,” Yamamoto says, rubbing the back of his head. He looks a little sheepish. “Scared the living bejeezus out of me, haha. I thought he was thinking about killing _me_ for a few minutes!”  
  
Biting his lip, Gokudera places the incident just after Shamal’s not-so-pleasant visit to his apartment. _That asshole—acting like he doesn’t even care!_ But then Gokudera remembers the brief altercation over the issue of sex while healing, and he immediately feels his ears heat as they turn bright red.  
  
“What… what did he say?” Gokudera asks. It’s not easy to mask his nervousness.  
  
“Well, just basic instructions, since I’m your caretaker—of sorts,” Yamamoto says. He presses his hand to the scar on his chin as he looks away thoughtfully. “I think he meant to say more than just the doctor-y stuff, but he never seemed to get around to it. He just told me to make sure I keep a good eye on you, is all.”  
  
“That bastard,” Gokudera mutters under his breath. Yamamoto shoots him a questioning look, but Gokudera waves it away. “He’s just an old worrywart; don’t let him get to you.”  
  
Yamamoto snorts softly. “You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” he says, after a moment. “He really cares about you, you know?”  
  
Gokudera doesn’t reply, because he already _knows_ that. He just doesn’t want to admit it.  
  
“Hey, are you really planning to go on a business trip?” Yamamoto asks. “Are you sure you can’t get the meeting rearranged so that it’s closer to here?”  
  
“They’re doing me a huge service, Takeshi. It wouldn’t be _polite_ to ask them to come here,” Gokudera says nonchalantly. “Besides, it might do me some good to get a change of scenery.”  
  
“Italy?”  
  
Gokudera starts, but composes himself. “I didn’t say—”  
  
Yamamoto cuts him off with a mirthless laugh. “But you always use that phrase when you’re going to Italy. Who are you visiting?”  
  
Gokudera sighs. “Lambo’s uncle. Supposedly he can get me a meeting with their Boss’ _sotto capo_.”  
  
“Aren’t we on pretty good terms with the Bovino?” Yamamoto asks, frowning. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t be willing to come out here to Japan to meet with you—after all, we _are_ the Vongola, haha.”  
  
“It isn’t _polite_ , dumbass,” Gokudera says again. “Just because we’re more powerful doesn’t mean we can bully them into doing what we want. Besides, I’m the Tenth’s _sotto capo_ , I am obligated to set the right example in matters like these.”  
  
Yamamoto bites his lip. “But I’m sure they won’t consider it rude if you tell them _why_ it’s a bad idea for you to travel,” he says.  
  
“Jesus, you’re persistent.” Gokudera runs a hand through his hair. “Giving off an image of weakness is the _last_ thing I should be doing, don’t you think?”  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t say anything, but he looks almost petulant.  
  
“Look, I promise I won’t get into any trouble. It’ll be a low-key meeting, and I’ll be back in a matter of days. Giannini, Lambo and Ipin agreed to come with me,” Gokudera says, trying to be reassuring. “It’ll be fine. Really.”  
  
Giving Gokudera a skeptical glance, Yamamoto shrugs. “I just think your timing could be better.”  
  
“Probably,” Gokudera agrees. “But if I want to get anywhere on this project, this is what needs to happen. And soon.”  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t bother to reply, but Gokudera can tell he still isn’t on board with the idea. It’s not like Yamamoto really has a say, but it would’ve been nice to have his support. Their dinner concludes with an uneasy silence, and after Yamamoto excuses himself to shower before bed, Gokudera realizes he never got the details of Yamamoto’s mission out of him.  
  
He cleans up the dishes and gets ready for bed, but he falls asleep long before Yamamoto crawls in beside him.  
  
  
  
  
  
One thing is for certain in Gokudera’s mind: _Takeshi is a sex god._  
  
The stitches in Gokudera’s side ache faintly in protest, but he can’t seem to wipe the sated grin off his face as he lies on his back with one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Shamal’s going to skin them both alive if he finds out, but Gokudera thinks it’s worth it. Yamamoto is smart enough to know not to push his luck with the grouchy older man, _and_ he knows very well how to be gentle. (Almost _too_ gentle for Gokudera’s liking, but in hindsight, Yamamoto probably did him a favor.)  
  
 _“Wait, wait—Shamal said we couldn’t—nngh, Hayato, stop! That’s cheating! Wouldn’t you just be leaving hickeys on yourself if you keep doing that?!”_  
  
Gokudera snorts as he recalls Yamamoto asking him that question with the most amusing mix of horror and pleasure on his face.  
  
 _“Of course not, idiot,”_ he’d said. _“They only transfer damage when elemental flames trigger them in both people involved! … Unless you_ want _to try it with our flames activated.” He grins lewdly.  
  
Yamamoto’s jaw drops for a split second before he tilts his head back and laughs. “Haha, and people think _ I’m _the dirty-minded one in this relationship!”  
  
“Hey! Who’s been talking about us behind our backs?!”  
  
“You act like nobody knows, but it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? Haha, I mean, Tsuna may pretend to turn a blind eye, but you know better than anyone that he’s smarter than he lets on.”  
_  
 _There’s an undeniable truth to Yamamoto’s words, and Gokudera doesn’t really feel the need to argue with him on that point. Instead, he smirks again, crawling across Yamamoto’s legs to get in his face.  
  
“Well, then you’d better start living up to your reputation,” he says huskily.  
  
Yamamoto’s idiot grin turns feral, It all goes downhill from there._  
  
Yamamoto’s snores hitch against his shoulder, and Gokudera’s grin widens as he looks over at the sleeping idiot. He hasn’t laughed so much in such a long time, and it feels so good—he’d forgotten how cathartic it could be. All the tension he’d been harboring in his back and shoulders have been eased; he didn’t even realize that he’d been so uptight of late.  
  
The sword-calloused fingers splayed softly over the gauze on Gokudera’s wound suddenly twitch, and the snores stop abruptly with a befuddled snort and a huge yawn.  
  
“Slept long enough,” Gokudera greets softly.  
  
“Mm,” Yamamoto hums contently and snuggles in closer to Gokudera’s side. “Don’t wanna.”  
  
“You’re going to miss your bus if you keep sleeping for too much longer.”  
  
Yamamoto’s shoulders tense, and then relax as he sighs dramatically. “What time is it?”  
  
“Seven-thirty.”  
  
Stretching, Yamamoto plants a kiss against Gokudera’s collarbone before he rolls out of bed. “What would I do without my trusty alarm clock?”  
  
“Run late like an idiot?” Gokudera suggests. “Or you could take my travel alarm in my stead. It’s pleasantly annoying in the mornings. Named it Takeshi.”  
  
“Ha, _ha_ ,” Yamamoto mock-laughs. “Someone’s grouchy this morning! I’ll go make us some coffee.”  
  
Gokudera grits his teeth; he actually _is_ in a good mood, so he doesn’t really know why he said that. But then when he thinks about it, a part of him is still mad at Yamamoto for going on this mission, even though he _knows_ it’s important. Stifling that irritated part of his brain, he carefully pulls himself out of bed, and much to his pleasant surprise, his injury isn’t screaming in agony at him.  
  
 _Takeshi really_ is _a sex god,_ he thinks again, and follows Yamamoto to the kitchen with a smirk.  
  
“Hey,” he says, pulling out a stool at their kitchen island and settling down on it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that so rudely.”  
  
“Hm? What?” Yamamoto looks confused for all of three seconds. “Oh, that? Haha, don’t even worry about it! You’re just not always a morning person when we stay up late.”  
  
Gokudera scowls, biting his lip. “But I still didn’t mean it like it came out. I’m actually in a good mood!”  
  
Yamamoto just laughs, and Gokudera scowls more.  
  
“If that’s your good mood, then I’m scared to see what your bad mood looks like!”  
  
“Oh stuff it,” Gokudera says, but the scowl’s fading into a grin. “’Sides, if I grinned like a moron all the time, people would definitely know that you’re rubbing off on me.”  
  
Yamamoto grins (like an idiot), and turns back to getting the coffee prepared.  
  
Gokudera pulls on a pair of loose sweatpants and a hoodie before he brings out his laptop while Yamamoto quickly gets ready and finishes packing. It takes a lot of concentration on Gokudera’s part to keep his mind focused on the code on his screen instead of Yamamoto’s mission, and when he catches himself re-reading the same line of code more than three times over, he knows he isn’t succeeding. Something in his gut tells him that there’s danger up ahead, and all the tension he’d managed to bleed out the night before is creeping back into his shoulders.  
  
Eventually, he gives up on the codes and closes his laptop to turn on the TV instead.  
  
Yamamoto emerges, clean-shaven and dressed in his Vongola suit as he carries his small travel bag to the door of their apartment. He’s even wearing the cologne Gokudera bought for him a few Christmases back, and it makes Gokudera’s stomach lurch in worry.  
  
Gokudera wants to walk Yamamoto to the station, but he knows that it would only make this more difficult than it already is. Instead, he rises to his feet and goes to Yamamoto at the door, fondly adjusting the poorly-tied tie.  
  
“Hey,” he says softly. “Be careful, okay?”  
  
Yamamoto grips his chin and tilts it up for a kiss. When he pulls away, he brushes his fingers against Gokudera’s injured side. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if I wasn’t.”  
  
“Call me when you get there,” Gokudera says sternly.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Yamamoto turns to open the door, but suddenly he stops, eyes wide. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you—you need to go talk to Lambo today. You’ve got some important guests coming into town this week.”  
  
“Guests? This week?” Gokudera blinks. “But I’m leaving for Italy in two days—”  
  
“Your trip’s been cancelled,” Yamamoto says with a lofty grin. “Lambo’s uncle said that their _sotto capo_ agreed to come visit you here instead, and was _delighted_ to make the trip when he heard that you really shouldn’t be traveling right now.”  
  
“What—wait— _why you—_ damn it, Takeshi!”  
  
“Haha,” Yamamoto laughs good-naturedly. “You’re welcome?”  
  
“I can’t _believe_ you!” Gokudera exclaims.  
  
“You can thank me later,” Yamamoto says, cutting off further protest from Gokudera with another kiss. “I’ll call you later tonight. Promise.”  
  
And before Gokudera can hurl something more coherent than a string of curses at Yamamoto, he’s already gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
Once Gokudera realizes he actually doesn’t have to prepare for a trip he’s not really up to taking, he finds himself thanking Yamamoto profusely over the phone that night. Yamamoto merely laughs around the strain in his voice, and says sincerely, “I love you.”  
  
  
  
  
  
As he finishes tying the tie on his official Vongola business suit, Gokudera winces at his reflection in the full-length mirror. It’s just a hair baggy on him, he notes; he’ll have to make an appointment with the tailor as soon as he can to make proper adjustments. He’s lost some valuable muscle mass during his extended injury leave, so the shoulders and upper arms are a little roomier than he’s used to. It isn’t horribly noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him well, but it kind of pisses him off that he doesn’t have enough time to get it fixed before his meeting with the Bovino _sotto capo_.  
  
He just finishes dabbing on a bit of his favorite Italian cologne when there’s a knock at the apartment door. A glance at the clock tells him it’s probably Giannini; he invited the Vongola lead engineer to accompany him for the meeting for a better absorption of any information the Bovino might be able to offer them.  
  
“Giannini,” Gokudera greets when he opens the door. “Shall we?”  
  
Giannini looks a little nervous (or perhaps excited), but he nods stoically. Gokudera turns to lock his apartment, and then leads the way to the conference block on the opposite end of the Vongola estate.  
  
In response to the Bovino’s gracious decision to fly out to Japan to meet with Gokudera, Gokudera has made certain that no expense is spared for their guests. They will meet in the finest conference room the Vongola estate has to offer, with all of the best amenities afforded by the Vongola’s lenient entertainment budget. Typically, Gokudera wouldn’t dare spend the Tenth’s money this way, but he knows it’s a sign of good faith to the Bovino to offer the warmest possible welcome in thanks. The Tenth seemed more than happy to approve the proposed budget, but Gokudera still can’t help but feel at least a little guilty (and embarrassed) for the necessary expenses.  
  
The conference room is fully decorated and stocked with refreshments by the time Gokudera and Giannini arrive, much to Gokudera’s relief. He typically tries to oversee all the arrangements himself on such meetings, but the magnanimous Tenth had _insisted_ on taking over the supervision himself. The Vongola boss was nowhere to be seen at the time, but Gokudera could sense that his boss had been there personally to make sure every detail was in place.  
  
It doesn’t help assuage the feeling of guilt still lurking in the back of Gokudera’s mind.  
  
“Wow, this looks great!” Giannini is saying beside him, eyeing the array of _hours d’oeuvres_ excitedly.  
  
“Of course,” Gokudera snaps. “The Tenth wouldn’t allow for any less.” (But he’s smirking anyway.)  
  
It isn’t long before the Bovino party arrives, led by the _sotto capo_ and his entourage of bodyguards. They look around appreciatively before greeting Gokudera warmly in stilted Japanese, which Gokudera politely compliments (but allows for the switch to Italian) as they exchange pleasantries.  
  
 _Il signor_ Ettore Mancino—the Bovino famiglia’s _sotto capo_ —is a stocky, diminutive individual who carries a serious expression with an air of one who is extremely cautious, Gokudera observes. Despite the numerous bodyguards and the Bovino’s weak reputation as fighters, Gokudera gets the sense that Mancino is perfectly capable of handling himself in a serious scuffle, but shrewd enough to know when to avoid such a situation. Even as he observes Mancino in their exchange of greetings, Gokudera can tell he’s receiving the same kind of scrutiny under the shorter man’s keen gaze.  
  
“I hope that my godson isn’t causing too much trouble for you,” Mancino says, using just the proper amount of concern in his tone. “Lambo is our pride and joy, but we are more than aware of his… _unique_ ability to abuse our technology in public.”  
  
“Lambo is a valuable asset to our famiglia, Signore,” Gokudera assures him pleasantly. “You need not worry about his abilities; he has grown considerably in recent years.” (Which isn’t a lie, really, but Gokudera doesn’t need to mention the constant arguments the two have had during Guardian meetings and other skirmishes.)  
  
“Ah, that is such a relief to hear,” Mancino replies.  
  
Gokudera gestures to the empty chairs around the conference table. “I do not wish to impose upon your valuable time, so I hope you don’t mind if we quickly get to business,” he says, carefully.  
  
“Of course, of course.”  
  
Once both parties are settled into their seats, Gokudera carefully collects his thoughts. It’s difficult to ask another family to indulge generations-long technological secrets, but he’s determined to do his best without treading too much on the Bovino’s territory.  
  
“Now, what can the Bovino do for its most valued allies?” Mancino asks pleasantly, folding his hands neatly in front of him on the conference table.  
  
“I am hoping you could offer some advice,” Gokudera says. “I want to make sure it’s clear that I am _not_ expecting you to divulge information that you are not entitled to offer, but anything you have could be useful. In exchange, we promise that you will be handsomely rewarded as you see fit.”  
  
Mancino raises an eyebrow. “And what information might you have in mind?”  
  
“I am hoping you could provide information on space-time travel.”  
  
Gokudera is impressed with how well Mancino is able to school his expression of surprise into something more innocuous. He waits patiently for a moment before continuing.  
  
“Don’t worry, Lambo has not yet revealed the delicate technological secrets behind the Ten Year Bazooka,” he assures Mancino quickly. “I am doing some research on travel of a similar nature, and am hoping you could provide some insight.”  
  
“Oh? And what sort of travel might you have in mind?” Mancino asks.  
  
Gokudera takes a deep breath and looks Mancino straight in the eyes. “I have the technology to travel across parallel universes,” he says.  
  
Mancino blinks for all of two moments before the words sink into his mind, and then his eyes grow wide. He suddenly looks around suspiciously before he leans in and hisses, “Are you _mad_? That kind of technology can get you _killed_ these days, boy—what are you playing at?”  
  
The reaction is entirely unexpected; it’s Gokudera’s turn to blink in shock. He doesn’t even have time to process what Mancino has just implied before the Bovino’s underboss leans in close.  
  
“There have been rumors for some time, signor Gokudera—rumors that the Vongola might have the key to unravel the Gesso’s secret leader’s trump card,” he whispers. “But I was hoping… I had hoped that it was just a rumor, because whoever has that kind of technology is likely to get wiped out before long.”  
  
Gokudera’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”  
  
“The Gesso has been gearing up for war for _years_ now. Once they figure out that you have something that dangerous, something potentially ruinous to their plans, they’re not going to like it.” Mancino grips Gokudera’s forearm. “I have faith in Vongola’s strength, Gokudera, but are you truly prepared for war?”  
  
Gokudera’s back straightens determinedly. Of course they know about the threat Gesso poses; they’ve known for nearly ten years that the Gesso—soon to become the Millefiore, if they hadn’t already—plans to war with the Vongola. It’s what they’ve been preparing for all this time, but the stark terror in Mancino’s sharp eyes suddenly has Gokudera worrying. Have they done enough? _Will we be strong enough in time?_  
  
He meets Mancino’s gaze coolly. “That isn’t news for us, Mancino,” he says. “You’ve underestimated your own technology’s advantages for our famiglia.”  
  
Gokudera doesn’t elaborate, but he can tell that Mancino gets the gist of what he’s implying.  
  
“What do you need information from us for, then?” he says cautiously.  
  
“I haven’t tested my technology yet,” Gokudera says slowly. “I need to make sure my theory is correct—that it _is_ possible to have a body move along the space-time axis into a place it doesn’t belong, without bodily harm being inflicted.”  
  
“Yes,” Mancino says without hesitation. “It is possible, at least in regards to time travel. Universe travel, though—that might be out of our league.”  
  
“But in theory, you think it’s possible,” Gokudera says.  
  
Mancino nods slowly, leaning back in his chair. “In theory.” He bites his lip, and then adds, “There’s another rumor, you know—about why the Gesso’s leader is so terrifying. He’s in possession of something that allows him to see across universes.”  
  
“The Mare Rings,” Gokudera supplies, feeling a cold pit of dread form in his stomach. Mancino at him in surprise, and Gokudera smiles wryly. “We are more familiar with the Gesso’s abilities than you realize. Do you know anything specific about the Mare Rings?”  
  
“I haven’t heard anything about the technology itself, but what I have heard is that—while extremely powerful—they haven’t quite mastered the traveling part. They only have the ability of sight, nothing more, according to our sources.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Mancino looks apologetic. “I’m sorry we do not have more information on their technology than that, signor Gokudera.”  
  
“No, no, you’ve been more than helpful.” Gokudera realizes that while the Bovino might not have any specifically useful information, their sources are confirming Gokudera’s fears: the Gesso—no, the _Millefiore_ is on the move. And Gokudera really doesn’t have much time to complete his projects before they’ll become incremental elements of Vongola’s defense against the pending attacks. “I thank you for traveling this far to speak with me. Please let us know if there’s anything we can offer you in return.”  
  
Mancino nods and shakes Gokudera’s hand hesitantly before he stands. As they exchange farewells, Mancino lags behind his guards for a moment, turning suddenly and gripping Gokudera’s forearm harshly. Gokudera looks down in surprise as Mancino pulls him close.  
  
“I know it isn’t much,” he says lowly, “but I would like to offer you our most sensitive technological secrets. My boss probably wouldn’t approve of this, but I am convinced that the Vongola is our last chance at a successful defense against the Gesso and their allies.” He passes a small scroll of parchment discreetly to Gokudera’s hand as he grips it in a mock farewell handshake. “May it serve you well in your efforts, signor Gokudera.”  
  
Clearing his throat, Mancino straightens and says—again, apologetically, “Thank you for your hospitality, Signore. We are most grateful.”  
  
Gokudera’s fist tightens around the parchment in his hand as he bows graciously to Mancino. “Thank _you_ ; let us know if we can further serve you. Please travel safely home.”  
  
Giannini taps Gokudera on the shoulder with a pen once the Bovino entourage is out of sight. Gokudera flinches (he’d nearly forgotten that Giannini was even there), and turns to find a broad grin on Giannini’s wide face. The expression has Gokudera’s heart pounding.  
  
“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” he says, almost breathlessly.  
  
“Maybe,” Giannini replies modestly.  
  
It’s more than a good enough response for Gokudera. “I’ll meet you at the lab this evening.”  
  
Giannini nods, and Gokudera takes his leave, anxious to examine the Bovino’s most guarded secrets before their meeting. It’s the first time in a long time that Gokudera has felt even the slightest shred of hope— _we might actually have a chance to beat them first this time!_  
  
He savors the feeling of hope greedily, because he knows it may not last; for now, though, it’ll suffice.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gokudera has never seen Giannini so fired up before; it’s half-entertaining, and half-frightening.  
  
They were discussing the possibility of the Grandfather Paradox when Gokudera lit up a cigarette, and suddenly got a short-chubby Italian engineer in a true Italian-style lecturing _rage_. Gokudera honestly hasn’t seen such a fantastic bout of rage-ranting since he moved to Japan—this is the entertaining half. The frightening half, though, has Gokudera backpedalling with the cigarette long since squashed under his dress shoe’s heel, hands up defensively, a thousand Italian curses fluttering through his brain and not quite making it to the tip of his tongue.  
  
Maybe it’s the surprise that gets to him—Gokudera has _never_ seen Giannini be anything but nervous, humble, or constrained even in his excitement.  
  
“—can’t _believe_ you would even _think_ about still smoking when everyone has been _so worried_ about your health! And Yamamoto-san, what would he say? And Dr. Shamal?” Giannini is red in the face. The lad really needs to learn how to breathe if he’s going to rant this hard. “You really need to learn how to respect your friends’ concern! The Tenth needs you whole and healthy again, and here you are, lighting up like a common Japanese street thug!”  
  
It’s at that moment that a blessed distraction arrives in the lab door, which bursts open harshly, revealing a furious Lambo. Gokudera almost breathes in a sigh of relief as Lambo stalks over, opens his mouth to actually _thank_ the kid for the interruption, but again all of his words catch in his throat when Lambo fists his hands into the lapels of Gokudera’s suit jacket and slams him back into the lab wall.  
  
“Ow, what the _hell_ , Lambo? Not you too—” Gokudera hisses, but Lambo presses harder, effectively shutting him up.  
  
“What the _fuck_ did you discuss with my godfather?!” Lambo says, his voice low and coarse with rage.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gokudera says evenly. There isn’t a chance in hell he’d say anything to Lambo unless it was vitally important. “If you weren’t invited, you aren’t going to know.”  
  
Lambo slams him against the wall again, and Gokudera’s head cracks against the hard concrete with enough force to send stars flickering across vision. He hears Giannini yelp in protest from behind Lambo, but Lambo ignores him. “You almost got my godfather _killed_ , you fucker!”  
  
Gokudera blinks, and it takes all of two seconds to connect Lambo’s earlier statement with the one he’s getting now, and then he finally realizes what Lambo is implying. “Wait. _What_?! What happened?”  
  
“My godfather’s party was attacked on the way back to their lodgings,” Lambo says harshly. Gokudera twists Lambo’s hands away from his suit jacket and smoothes out the lapels. Lambo lets him.  
  
“Are they okay?” Gokudera is careful to keep his voice calm and even as he speaks.  
  
“An assassin shot my godfather—he’s alive, but they want to get him back to Italy as soon as possible.” Lambo looks away, and there’s a hint of concern there, but it fades quickly under freshly-gathered fury. “If you hadn’t talked to him about… whatever you were talking about, this wouldn’t have happened! _Stupidera_!”  
  
“Wait, this is _my_ fault? You were the one offering to have him come out here!” Gokudera’s irritation broils beneath his skin, but not all of it is directed at Lambo. “Son of a _bitch_ , this is why I wanted to have the meeting in Italy in the first place!”  
  
“You… didn’t request them to come out here?” Lambo says suddenly, looking really confused.  
  
“No, you dumbass! Yamamoto went behind my back and changed my plans,” Gokudera replies defensively. “This is _exactly_ why I don’t know why I let any of you knuckleheads talk me out of what I _know_ is a safe idea!”  
  
“Why did Yamamoto make you change your plans?” Lambo’s anger seems to have dissolved, and now he’s looking a little guilty for having been so rough with Gokudera. The look on his face makes Gokudera fidget uncomfortably.  
  
“He thought it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to travel,” Gokudera says carefully. No use in getting Lambo riled up over his own inadequacy.  
  
Lambo doesn’t seem to buy the answer, but he lets it go. Stepping back for a moment, he looks torn, but finally his shoulders slump and the anger truly fades.  
  
“Gokudera, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to take it out on you like that,” he says after a moment. “I’m just… I’m really worried, because my godfather’s bodyguards said something about their attackers. It made me worry.”  
  
Gokudera’s blood turns to ice in his veins, and his stomach drops. “What did they say?”  
  
“They said the leader of the attack used a weird box-like weapon.” Lambo chews on his lip. “Gokudera, you don’t think that—”  
  
“ _Millefiore_ ,” Gokudera says quietly, clenching his fists. “It’s already begun.”  
  
Lambo looks stricken, almost sick to his stomach. “But I thought they couldn’t… they couldn’t _possibly_ …”  
  
“Oh, no, it’s possible,” Gokudera says. “The Gesso have been building ranks for some time now. I just didn’t expect they’d change over so goddamn _fast_ —look, Lambo, you should tell your Bovino relatives to high tail it back to Italy, and hide. Things are going to get ugly here, really fast. Oh, and please let the Tenth know that I’ll need to speak with him in his office later tonight, if he’s available.”  
  
Lambo’s mouth works wordlessly for a moment before he simply nods. “O-Okay.”  
  
Gokudera glances over at Giannini and gestures at the lab door with his eyes, and Giannini nods, taking the cue. Slinging an arm around Lambo’s shoulders, he guides the Thunder Guardian away from the lab, leaving Gokudera to his own thoughts.  
  
Gokudera waits until they’re gone before he lights up, this time. After locking the door to his lab, he viciously turns to his notes on the universe-jumper. Unrolling the Bovino’s secret scroll next to his own notes and smoothing it out over the workspace, he takes a long, deep drag on the cigarette before he gets to work.  
  
  
  
  
  
In Yamamoto’s absence, Gokudera finds himself spending less and less time at their apartment. When he isn’t in the lab or discussing business with the Tenth, he occasionally finds himself wandering the estate grounds, finding places to think quietly.  
  
He often goes to the Zen garden to meditate, the way he’d been taught during his Buddhist monk phase as a young boy. The Zen masters would walk around during _sesshin_ , keeping an eye on all the meditating students, gleefully using their _keisaku_ on sleeping students’ shoulders. Gokudera wasn’t fond of those moments, but he had to admit that the practice _did_ help him focus during meditation. His father never seemed to approve of his Buddhist practices, which only made him more determined to succeed.  
  
(His father also managed to drag him to mass as a child, but the only things of value Gokudera retains from those days are a strong vocabulary of curse words he’d learned from a few other boys in the church, and an appreciation of art and music.)  
  
Gokudera actually finds himself missing the Zen master’s _keisaku_ as his mind wanders beyond his control during his walk in the Zen garden. The fact that the Millefiore are finally a cohesive group scares the living _hell_ out of him, if only because he knows that it’s just a matter of time before the Vongola’s brief period of relative peace comes to an end. He doesn’t feel like he has done enough to ensure that the Vongola is ready for this. None of the safety measures he put in place to protect them are working the way they’re supposed to—they work, yes, but both have serious vulnerabilities.  
  
The latest round of re-coding on the nanobots has been promising, though, but the results from the test on his lab rats won’t be back for a few days, at the very least. The universe-traveling machine has too many security loopholes and safety concerns (Gokudera still doesn’t dare turn it on for fear that Byakuran will sense it again), and he’s still working through the details of the Bovino famiglia’s research to see if it will prove useful.  
  
Gokudera stumbles over a rock in the pathway, breaking off his train of thought. He turns and glares, kicking it back down the path behind him. It bounces several times, before landing at a pair of well-shined dress shoes. Gokudera tenses, looks up to see who the shoes belong to, and is surprised to find one of Tsuna’s secretaries looking down at the rock at his feet with a raised eyebrow. ( _Tanaka_ , Gokudera finally remembers the name.)  
  
“Gokudera-san…?” Tanaka says, uncertainly. “Sawada-sama would like to speak with you, unless this is a bad time?”  
  
“ _Che_ ,” Gokudera says sullenly—but quietly, to himself. Then he quickly brightens his expression. “Of course, I will be more than happy to speak with the Tenth! I will be right there, I promise; tell him I won’t keep him waiting long.”  
  
The Tenth’s secretary nods, and turns to go back to the estate with his message. Gokudera sighs, looks up at the partially cloudy sky, and turns to go find his boss.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gokudera knows it’s only going to be bad news, even before the Tenth opens his mouth. The young Vongola boss looks exhausted and… well, not _defeated_ , but sad, with his shoulders slouched and his expression pale and pinched as he sits in his large, padded Boss chair. There is a coded message on the desk in front of him, if Gokudera’s upside-down reading ability is as accurate as he thinks it is.  
  
“I made contact with Yamamoto this morning,” the Tenth says solemnly. “He confirms the Bovino’s report that the Gesso famiglia has indeed become the Millefiore.”  
  
At this point, the news is hardly a surprise, but Gokudera grimaces anyway—and tries not to think about where Yamamoto might be investigating to have come across such information. He sighs, settling down into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.  
  
“You don’t seem too surprised,” the Tenth notes.  
  
Gokudera runs a hand through his hair. “Not particularly,” he admits. “The name change really doesn’t mean all that much. But it still hurts to hear it confirmed. I… I was hoping—”  
  
The Tenth graciously cuts him off with a shake of his head. “I know how you feel, but keep in mind that we’ve been through this before, Gokudera-kun. We beat them once in our youth, and I’m sure we can get through this again.”  
  
Barely managing a grin for the Tenth’s sake, Gokudera nods. “Of course,” he says brightly. (He doesn’t need to mention his fears here—that the Tenth may still be gunned down, that all of their plans will fail, that the Byakuran of _now_ is different from the Byakuran they faced all those years ago and they won’t be able to defeat him…)  
  
“Gokudera-kun…? Are you all right?”  
  
Gokudera blinks, quickly forcing the smile back onto his face. “Ah, I’m sorry, Tenth! I was just thinking.”  
  
“I could see that,” the Tenth says kindly. “And I think I might know what you were thinking about.” Gokudera looks up, startled. “You shouldn’t worry so much about everything, you make it too obvious.”  
  
Gokudera bites his lip, feeling stupid—of _course_ the Tenth would know what he’s thinking. _Idiot_.  
  
“I understand why you’re concerned, though—I didn’t even anticipate the amount of hostility the Millefiore would be able to conjure up against us in such a short amount of time.”  
  
“Have you heard back from the Bovino?” Gokudera asks.  
  
“No,” the Tenth replies, “but I have a feeling that their party made it back to Italy just fine. I’m not too worried about them just yet, so long as they stay under the radar for the time being. Long enough for us to sort things through here, at least.”  
  
A part of Gokudera feels slightly ill, suddenly. “You intend to try negotiating with the Millefiore?” he asks, his voice sticking in his throat thickly. All he can think about is the first time he heard about the Tenth’s death, the sick, gnawing, empty feeling that drew on him like a black hole in the pit of his stomach.  
  
 _Please don’t do this to us again, Tenth—_  
  
But the Tenth looks determined. “We have to at least try,” he says, leaving no room for argument in his tone. “At least we know what they’re capable of now.”  
  
 _No,_ Gokudera thinks, _I don’t think we do._  
  
“You’re right, Tenth,” Gokudera manages to say instead. “We need to stick to our core Vongola values, otherwise we’re no better than they are.”  
  
Gokudera wishes he could believe his own words, and hates himself for forcing them out, thinking the Tenth will see right through his filthy lie. But the Tenth smiles genuinely, and it only makes Gokudera feel worse.  
  
“We do need to be careful though,” he adds. “We may know a decent amount about the Millefiore, but we don’t know as much about the other _famiglia_ he has alliances with. The Solntsevskaya are unlikely to want to negotiate peace with us after what happened there last year.”  
  
He doesn’t need to go into detail; the Tenth already looks a little sick at the reminder. He straightens his back after a moment, though, and looks at Gokudera with a familiar flame burning in his eyes.  
  
“We have to try,” he says firmly.  
  
Gokudera can’t argue with him there. _The Tenth wouldn’t be the leader he is if he didn’t stick to his morals_ , he reminds himself. He nods in agreement and settles back into the chair.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do to find contacts that are still willing to play as neutral mediators,” Gokudera says.  
  
The Tenth nods. “Thank you, Gokudera-kun. I’m sorry to trouble you.”  
  
“It’s my duty as your Right Hand Man, Tenth—it’s my pleasure to be of assistance to you!”  
  
The Tenth’s eyes sadden and drop to Gokudera’s side (Gokudera quickly pulls his hand away, he didn’t even realize he’d been clutching it). “I don’t want you to strain yourself too much though.”  
  
Gokudera feels embarrassed heat crawling up the back of his neck and ears. “I’m fine,” he blurts instinctively. “Just a habit. It’s healing much better now, really.”  
  
“Dr. Shamal tells me that your wound is healing too slowly for his liking,” the Tenth comments. “I don’t want you to take a step backward, so please take it easy.”  
  
“Making a few phone calls won’t—” The Tenth gives him a _look_ , and Gokudera’s teeth clack together as his mouth shuts abruptly. He sighs and mutters curses in Italian against meddling old perverts, and then quickly apologizes to the Tenth when he realizes that his boss is still watching him guardedly. “I’ll be careful, I promise. I won’t do anything that strains it unnecessarily.”  
  
“Gokudera,” the Tenth says calmly, dropping the honorific, “you’re my _friend_. I care about _you_. Please do not do anything that will… _unnecessarily_ put your life in danger—not for the sake of the Vongola, not for Yamamoto’s sake—” Gokudera flinches in surprise at the addition, but the Tenth continues, “—and _especially_ not for mine.”  
  
The look the Tenth is narrowing on Gokudera makes him nervous, because he has this niggling feeling that his boss knows _far more_ than he’ll admit (fuck it, he _knows_ that his boss is well aware that Gokudera isn’t really playing by the rules—even if Tsuna doesn’t know _how_ , it’s enough that he knows _something_ is up). Breathing in harshly through his nose, Gokudera nods tightly.  
  
“I won’t,” he says, after a beat. “I promise.”  
  
The Tenth leans back in his seat, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “I will hold you to that promise, Gokudera-kun,” he says. “Oh! And I meant to tell you this sooner, but Yamamoto should be coming home tonight. I thought you’d like to know.”  
  
Gokudera breathes a sigh of relief—both at the change of the subject, and of the idea that Yamamoto is headed home ( _finally—_ ), and then he gathers enough of his wits to realize that the Tenth is _grinning_ at him. He can’t help the blush that he can feel burning across his cheeks.  
  
“It’s… it’s not like—” he stammers around his words, and he finds that he can’t even deny it.  
  
“Oh, it’s fine, everybody knows about it anyway,” the Tenth says. “You two have been living together for so long that it never really surprised any of us.” He looks at Gokudera thoughtfully for a moment. “Actually, Yamamoto already confirmed, some time ago. I was just curious as to when you were going to admit it.”  
  
Gokudera feels like his ears are going to burn right off his head. “I’m sorry—”  
  
“About what? Loving him?”  
  
 _Oh gods, kill me now—_ Gokudera fiercely fights the urge to crawl under the desk in embarrassment.  
  
“It’s really okay! I’m actually glad for the both of you; I think you’re good for each other.” The Tenth’s smile is so genuine that the burning embarrassment in Gokudera’s ears and neck cools down to a warm, pleasant glow.  
  
“Th… Thank you, Tenth,” Gokudera says gratefully. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”  
  
“You can’t always choose who you love,” the young Vongola boss says brightly. “Just… don’t hurt each other, okay?”  
  
Gokudera snorts softly. _As if I could, even if I wanted to._ The smile he returns is genuine.  
  
“Of course not,” Gokudera says. Carefully getting to his feet, he adds, “I know you have a meeting in an hour, so I’ll leave you to prepare. Let me know if you need anything from me.”  
  
“I will,” the Tenth promises.  
  
As Gokudera prepares to leave the office, the Tenth stalls him, putting a warm, strong hand on Gokudera’s forearm and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.  
  
“Remember what you promised,” he says, after a moment.  
  
“Yes, Tenth,” Gokudera replies, gut churning.  
  
  
  
  
  
Later, as Gokudera begins compiling a stack of ciphers and letters into organized envelopes, he realizes the only reason that he got away with lying to his best friend’s face is simple: he wasn’t lying.  
  
He _knows_ that the steps he’s taking to ensure his famiglia’s safety are _absolutely necessary_.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gokudera’s neck hurts, and something smells delicious—these two realizations slowly bring him out of a light doze from an awkward position on the couch. Rubbing his neck where it had been crooked at a bad angle against the back of the couch, he looks up at the clock on the wall and starts, stumbling to his feet.  
  
It’s nearly nine at night.  
  
 _Damn it_ , he does the math and discovers he’s been asleep for nearly three hours. No wonder his neck is hurting so badly. He scrubs at it irritably.  
  
“Hey, sleepyhead. About ready for some dinner?”  
  
Gokudera freezes, his heart skipping a beat in his chest at the sound of the familiar voice. He almost doesn’t want to turn around, afraid that his mind is playing tricks on him—that the smell of food cooking, the sizzle of the pans, the warm presence in the kitchen are all just a figment of his overtired mind. But he knows he’s being irrational, so he slowly turns, eyes meeting warm amber and a bright white (idiot) smile, a beautiful face that looks worn and tired but _alive_.  
  
(It’s right at this moment, Gokudera realizes, that he really and truly has _missed_ Yamamoto. He’s missed him so badly that it makes his chest _ache_ now that he realizes it.)  
  
And then the moment shatters when Gokudera notices the black eye forming around Yamamoto’s left eye. He grits his teeth and stalks over to Yamamoto, grabbing the grinning swordsman’s scarred chin and tilting it so he can get a better look.  
  
“You fucking _idiot_ ,” he says, and—after a moment’s hesitation—drops his grip. “What happened?”  
  
“Ahaha…” Yamamoto reaches behind his head to rub at the back. “You see, ah, I ran into Lambo on my way back up here, and—”  
  
“ _Che_.” Gokudera scowls. “Well if that’s what happened, then you deserved it.”  
  
Yamamoto blinks in surprise. “ _Ah_?”  
  
“You heard me,” Gokudera says irritably. “The Bovino _sotto capo_ was nearly murdered when they came to visit while you were gone—on _your_ insistence, might I remind you.”  
  
It takes all of two seconds for Yamamoto’s expression to melt into something darker—hints of guilt, hurt, anger—and suddenly it makes Gokudera feel like a complete ass. Of course Yamamoto had already known about the whole debacle; he’d been in contact with the Tenth, who (no doubt) had ensured that Yamamoto was as informed as he could be. Gokudera realizes that he’s only rubbing salt into a wound. He _knows_ Yamamoto was torn between protecting Gokudera’s health and the Vongola’s allies’ safety when he made the decision to ask the Bovino to come here. But Gokudera can’t help himself, because it’s still his job to make sure that Vongola interests ultimately are protected. Even at the cost of his own health, if need be.  
  
“Oh,” is all Yamamoto says, the smile turning sour. He starts to turn, but Gokudera catches his arm.  
  
“You should’ve listened to me,” Gokudera says.  
  
The grin actually disappears into a frown, which looks horribly out of place on Yamamoto. Suddenly, Yamamoto looks _worn_ , the dark circles under his eyes more obvious (even around the forming black eye), worry lines more prominent on his forehead and around his lips, and weariness in his eyes that looks bone-deep.  
  
“I didn’t want you to hurt yourself more,” Yamamoto says stubbornly, straightening his back stiffly. His hand starts to reach out to Gokudera’s side, but hesitates with a flinch.  
  
Gokudera breathes deeply through his nose to sigh, but catches the faint remaining scent of Yamamoto’s favorite cologne. The aroma drains the fight right out of him, and his shoulders sag as he realizes what a jackass he’s actually being. He’s only lying to himself if he thinks he’s actually mad at the sword-toting idiot standing in front of him.  
  
So he grabs for Yamamoto’s hesitating hand and pulls him in for a tight embrace. Yamamoto stumbles in surprise, but the stiffness bleeds out of his shoulders quickly as he buries his face into Gokudera’s neck, lacing his fingers through the hairs at the nape.  
  
“God, I missed you,” Gokudera breathes into Yamamoto’s shoulder.  
  
Yamamoto’s grip tightens around him, and it’s all the answer he needs.  
  
  
  
  
  
Once dinner and showers are out of the way, Yamamoto flops down on the bed beside Gokudera, bare from the waist up, face buried into a pillow at Gokudera’s side and an arm slung across Gokudera’s lap. There are outlines of mild bruises along Yamamoto’s broad shoulders, but no obvious injuries. Gokudera can feel some of the worried tension relaxing out of his shoulders as he realizes that Yamamoto really is fine—that he’s truly _home_ , and whole. He should probably let Yamamoto rest, but Gokudera selfishly wants his company for as long as he can keep it tonight ( _damn it_ , he really missed Yamamoto).  
  
“Hey,” Gokudera says, nudging Yamamoto lightly with his knee. “You okay?”  
  
Yamamoto tilts his head so that one eye is visible, and when it meets Gokudera’s gaze, he rustles around in the blankets so that he’s lying on his side.  
  
“Mm, yeah,” Yamamoto says. “Just exhausted.”  
  
Gokudera eyes the bruises along Yamamoto’s back with a pointed stare. When Yamamoto grins back at him, he pokes one of the bruises and sees a grimace cross Yamamoto’s features.  
  
“What happened there?” Gokudera asks.  
  
“Got into a fight. Took a few hits,” Yamamoto says simply.  
  
The fact that Yamamoto is sporting no more than bruises tells Gokudera exactly who won that fight, so he doesn’t question it further. Even flopped over on his side, Yamamoto looks tense, like he hasn’t quite managed to relax the fight from his muscle memory.  
  
“Want me to rub it out?” Gokudera blurts.  
  
Yamamoto blinks stupidly at the offer, and suddenly the half-grin he’s been wearing turns into a bright smile of gratitude. He flops over so that he’s prone, wriggling and bumping up against Gokudera’s side like an overexcited puppy.  
  
“I take that as a yes,” Gokudera tries to say blandly, but he can’t help the smile that’s creeping onto his own face. “Hang tight; let me go grab the massage oil.”  
  
Gokudera has never offered to massage Yamamoto before—usually, it’s the other way around—so he isn’t quite sure how good of a job he’s going to do, and hesitates once he returns with the oil in hand. He straddles Yamamoto’s hips, pouring a coin-sized daub of oil into his hand and rubbing it between both hands to warm it before he presses cautiously into the thick muscles at the back of Yamamoto’s shoulders. They’re stiff and knotted under Gokudera’s palms, so he presses a little harder and is rewarded with a deep, satisfied groan.  
  
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” Gokudera says.  
  
“Mmph, _no_ ,” comes the emphatic reply.  
  
Encouraged, Gokudera continues kneading, putting his weight behind his hands, sometimes switching to his knuckles to deal with more stubborn knots. As the knots give way under Gokudera’s stubborn ministrations up and down Yamamoto’s spine, the tension bleeds from Yamamoto’s back with a series of pleased grunts and moans. It’s a satisfying feeling, and suddenly Gokudera understands why Yamamoto never seemed to mind doing this for him in the past.  
  
After a while, the pleased groans seem to become more subdued, and Yamamoto’s breathing slowly begins to even out.  
  
“Hey, you still awake?” Gokudera asks after pausing a moment with no response.  
  
“Mm? Bwuh?” Yamamoto’s head pops up slightly from his pillow.  
  
“Idiot,” Gokudera chastises softly. “Go to sleep, then.”  
  
But as he moves to get up, Yamamoto shifts under him suddenly, rolling and wrapping an arm around Gokudera’s waist and smoothly flipping him so that Gokudera is on his back, looking up at Yamamoto’s looming (happily grinning) face.  
  
“I take that you liked— _mmmph._ ” Yamamoto leans in and kisses him deeply, cutting off the remark.  
  
 _God_ , he missed this—Yamamoto’s stubbly chin, his chapped, gentle lips, even white teeth, aggressive tongue—  
  
Breaking away for breath after a moment, Yamamoto starts to pull back, but Gokudera wraps his arms around Yamamoto’s shoulders and leans up, capturing his lips again. Yamamoto’s hands work their way under Gokudera’s cotton t-shirt, slowly pushing it up over Gokudera’s stomach and chest. Gokudera breaks away just long enough to raise his arms so Yamamoto can pull it over his head, and in the process, Yamamoto shifts so that he’s now straddling Gokudera’s hips and pressing into him insistently.  
  
Gokudera grins into Yamamoto’s mouth, tugging on the idiot’s bottom lip with his teeth to remind him to _be gentle_ and that he’s only getting away with this because Gokudera’s _letting_ him. (And because Gokudera wants this so much right now that he isn’t about to remind Yamamoto that he’s technically still on Shamal’s medical orders.)  
  
In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway, because Yamamoto still is a sex god, and knows _exactly_ how to please his stubborn lover without being rough.  
  
  
  
  
  
After a good, long, lazy fuck, Gokudera strokes his fingers through Yamamoto’s hair. The idiot is half-draped across his legs with a dazed, _sated_ smile on his lips. Yamamoto’s fingers gently trace along the tape covering the gauze at Gokudera’s side, and suddenly he hesitates, the grin faltering.  
  
“Hayato…” he begins, but Gokudera cuts him off with a frown.  
  
“It’s fine,” he says hastily. “Nothing has changed—it’s actually better than when you last saw it.”  
  
“What does Dr. Shamal say?”  
  
“Who gives a fuck what that pervert quack thinks,” Gokudera snarls, but then he sighs at Yamamoto’s worried look. “He says it’s making progress, but not to overdo it. Nothing we haven’t heard before.”  
  
After a moment, Yamamoto asks hesitantly, “… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  
  
“Fuck no,” Gokudera says emphatically.  
  
“It’s still not healing properly, is it.”  
  
It isn’t a question. Gokudera sighs. “Not yet.”  
  
Yamamoto raises an eyebrow in question.  
  
“I’ve been working on reprogramming the nanobots so that they assist in healing,” Gokudera explains. “I haven’t managed to get far yet, but it’s promising—don’t look so excited, dumbass. My first reprogramming test was causing cancer in the lab rats, so it’s a ways off.” Yamamoto suddenly looks horrified, but Gokudera ignores him, continuing, “I might already be healed by the time I come up with a workable solution, but it’s good to have just in case… you know.”  
  
The arms tighten around his waist. “I won’t let that happen.”  
  
Gokudera sighs, because the idiot is still an idiot. “Then don’t get yourself in a bind, dummy.”  
  
Yamamoto’s concerned expression doesn’t change much, though he does seem to relax a little. Tightening his arms around Gokudera’s waist, he snuggles in closer.  
  
“I missed you,” he says sappily.  
  
Gokudera resists the knee-jerk reaction to push him off, because that isn’t his intent. Instead, he runs his fingers through Yamamoto’s hair affectionately, wiggling so that he’s face-to-face with Yamamoto. Yamamoto yawns, still grinning, eyes drooping.  
  
“Go to sleep, you idiot,” Gokudera says. “And I missed you, too.”  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Hayato’s fingers drift effortlessly over the polished ivory keys of the concert piano; it’s as if he’s never stopped playing, even after all these years of violence and playing politics.  
  
When the song ends, he sits for a moment as the note fades from the piano’s internal strings before he quietly closes the lid, stands, and walks away.  
  
He passes a mirror, decorative, hanging on the wall near the doorway, he freezes.  
  
It’s his own reflection staring back at him—but those aren’t his eyes. They aren’t—_  
  
The alarm buzzes, snapping him awake to Yamamoto’s warm, muscled arm draped over his waist. When Yamamoto stirs and asks him what’s wrong, all he can say is, “Nothing. Just a dream.”  
  
  
  
 ** _to be continued..._**

**Author's Note:**

> RECOMMENDED LISTENING:  
> ♪ [letters from the sky](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bN4AgsNIYM) { civil twilight }


End file.
